CONFESSIONS OF A CLOSET PANTSER

I used to think I was an Outliner, but I guess I'm not, at least not as good as I once thought I was. I had this clear idea of where my next novel was going...or maybe I didn't... because at 5:30 this morning I found myself writing in circles. I staggered out of my home studio and went to the kitchen and there I started to make myself a latte. Duke snuffled by with that wet nose of his. I gave him a yummie and stood shivering in the cold morning darkness outside the back door so he could do those things he does. Meanwhile, rags of clouds scudded in front of the few distant uncaring stars available at that ungodly hour. And somewhere in that moment of chill confusion I realized I probably was a Closet Pantser, one of those smug scribblers who thinks he's got it all down pat until reality strikes with a golden gong, something like those novices, stoked on heavenly opiates, intermittently sound in the temples I've visited in Asia. So I'm going back to it now, a lot more humbled, a bit less organized, but still, plowing forward. The muse expects at least that much of me.